Of Stories Behind Yellowing Walls

The constant reluctant whirring of the fan added to the drone of the usual unmindful sounds of an office which seemed to be in the throes of decay. Or so I thought.

The building reeks of a history drenched in centuries-old urine and the pale yellow walls of the staircase with peeling paint does nothing to distract even a painfully detached mind from the obvious conclusion. The freshly painted chalk white walls with the blood red sills on the outside are apparently to delude people who make the mistake of stumbling upon this ugly concrete giant, I thought to myself.

Have I mentioned the little puddles of mud and still-wet phlegm struggling against their own viscosity that welcome you from the non-existent front gate (whose existence once upon a time can be deduced from the still standing tall and erect posts) to the entrance? I still remember the first time I stood at the main road looking at the path leading to the entrance and then quite miserably, at my golden Kolhapuris. Not a very good first-day-fresh-into-summer-hols intern insight. Sighing audibly to impress upon the important looking men nearby the highly repulsive state of mind I’ve been induced into, I stepped inside the threshold of what would be my own personal little piece of inferno for the next couple of days.

The first thing that greeted me was the usual sense of apathy. Well, for that matter it’s the only consistent feeling that is to be encountered at any point of any random day. So much so that the absence of it leaves me in a nervous breakout of cold sweat.

“Dada, is Sir in his office?” Look of apathy.

“ Umm, can you give me last year’s case registry?” An apathetic slight movement of the neck muscles to indicate the impossibility of such a herculean task.

“Is there any place I can SIT?” The apathetic glare that follows sends me scurrying to the safe haven of the stinking staircase where I can at least pretend to be busy with my darling little savior of a phone.

The first day and my mentor arrives breezily apologizing for being late and a second and a minuscule fraction later, announces of my apparent meeting with the Chairperson. Ah, finally someone of authority.

The next hour quickly climbed the mental chart of “Moments I Would Not Want To Relive. Ever “ and since I’ve made my intention pretty clear I’m not going to the nitty-gritty’s of it. All I can say is that it involved a lot of what, how, where, who and incessant dismissive shaking of heads. The best thing about the Chairperson’s room was:                  

1.        It was painted a shade of pale beige with no such resemblance to yellow.
2.        The clock was just behind his chair which made it possible for me to steal quick furtive glances at the minutes hand rather than dare to bend my head slightly towards my wrist.

Finally, my mentor, realizing that I had reached the end of my answering spree zest, reminded the current villain of some appointment with a women’s self-help group and boy, was I pleased. Not just because I can once more taste my sweet succulent freedom but at the look of apparent revulsion and ‘tsk tsk’ muttered under his breath as my inner soul sang tunelessly at this sudden change of circumstances. Karma, I tell you.

Apparently, as I came out, the past one hour in the CP’s room had made me a celebrity of sorts. The moment I had settled myself comfortably in my mentor’s room, the person next door came buzzing in dying to know about the distinct level of humiliation I had been subjected to while someone else seemed to be having quite a nerve-wracking coughing fit near the door at almost the same moment. I gave my most pitiable ‘puss-in-boots-sad-pleading-eyes’ look and probably out of sympathy or empathy or just the horror that I would start a wailing fest without a moments delay (being a woman in a sexist world has its advantages too!) he brushed them off while offering me consolation somewhere in the lines of old men, talk way too much, etc.

Detecting a crack in his temperament I decided on a generous dose of the damsel-in-distress maneuver. And did it work wonders! I hopped out early afternoon dreaming about the typical starched rice with huge dollops of ghee and the customary mashed potatoes with boiled eggs that would be waiting for me at lunch back home. The early start to the weekend restored my faith in humanity again.

And now, sweating profusely in this dull, dusty and yes, you guessed it right, ‘yellow’ room going through the almost-at-the-end-of-their-tether registry’s and trying not to disassemble the entire load not out of fear of being reprimanded but rather of stirring up an army of dust and most probably hidden insects in the unknown crevices, I do not feel out of place anymore. The apathetic look mastered, the dust ignored, the smells consciously and willfully and compulsively blocked, I had probably become the flag bearer of “The If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Join ‘Em” society!

Sigh! (In audible heavy-hearted tone)……